The lithe Oleander reached the Coak line of ley first and caught two Breaths before Marta even arrived. Oleander in action was truly a wonder to behold, with none of the awkwardness displayed by other girls her age as she darted among the flowing Breath. She had already claimed another three, sealing and discarding that jar before Marta even captured her second.
Marta had no chance of beating her sibling in this last chance before the continents divided them. No matter how much she treasured Oleander, it would never do to allow her younger sister to defeat her so soundly.
So Marta cheated.
Summoning her gauntlet to grasp the glass jar, Marta thinned her Blessed Breath and extended the appendage enough to catch a Breath beyond her normal reach.
“Blackguard!”
Oleander trilled the word, her smirk glinting like a dagger in the dark. There was no judgment to her pronouncement though. This was simply another challenge, one she was sure to overcome as she redoubled her efforts.
With her extended reach Marta soon closed the gap despite Oleander whirling through the air like an acrobat. But by watching her sister, Marta’s attention was diverted, missing her lunge at one Breath. Unwilling to let it escape, Marta dismissed the gauntlet and summoned her rabbit legs, leaping after it and seizing it in her jar.
Oleander ignored the spectacular catch, her awareness solely focused on capturing the fragments of Sol. If Marta intended to prove herself Oleander’s equal, she too could not allow her focus to be sidetracked, pushing her sister from her mind as she concentrated at the task at hand.
And so the daughters of Norwood Childress spent the evening playing together at their private game. It ended without a word, both girls finally collapsing upon the earth with just enough air left in their lungs to cackle at the absurdity of it all. A home needed just one or perhaps two luz jars per room, no more than six required to keep a house well-lit. Even with all the sprawling rooms of Hillbrook Manor, they needed no more than forty Breaths. Yet as they counted out their catch, they had reached eighty-six in total, a truly ludicrous number.
As Marta rechecked her math, she realized her haul was forty-five, exactly four more than her sister and tying them up in their total scores. For the first time in over a year, they were equals. The number was too perfect, Marta regarding her sibling with suspicion. Though no Listener, Oleander shook her head with mock severity.
“Don’t think for a second I don’t intend on still winning.”
Oleander dissolved into giggles, prying opening the lid of one of her overstuffed luz jars and watching the released Breaths flee into the night. Marta responded in kind, her laughter twining with Oleander’s as their former captives mingled in the flow of the ley.
Marta did not know where the impulse came from as the opening stanza to the song “The Sun Rises in the East” filled her head. She released the song along with a second luz jar, the first strain rising in the night air to join the escaped Breaths.
Oleander joined in instantly, adding her voice to her sister’s with a haunting harmony. They sung well together, both said to have voices of mudbirds. Marta never cared for the comparison since mudbirds’ stunning songs were equaled only by their infamous ugliness. Beautiful mudbirds were said to be myths, a metaphor for the unattainable and an ideal of perfection that could never be reached. Yet lying upon the grass, the sky resplendent with countless stars gazing down upon them, Marta thought such perfection was more than just possible; it was an actuality, a moment the two sisters shared, one that only disappeared when the last strains of the song finally faded and Marta’s Blessed ley headache threatened.
***
The entire Childress family reached the port of Chateaugay by noon, over four hours for Marta’s trunks to be stowed before the ship departed for Hydford across the sea in Acweald. Much of their dwindling time together was depleted by having an image taken, the photographer forcing the family to remain stock still for an interminable amount of time as he fiddled with his Tinker contraption. Their parents and Carmichael stood stiff as sculptures, but at the last second, Oleander’s hand snaked out to give Marta a stinging pinch. The point she craved was denied her though, Marta’s smile remaining as statuesque as the others when the bulb finally flashed.
Spying the ship Sanct Rosario for the first time, Marta was surprised by how huge it seemed with its three decks and dual propellers. Lines of ley existed within the oceans as well, ancient sailors using them as landmarks as they made their way. Within her parents’ lifetimes Newfield Tinkers had figured out how to harness this energy to fuel their mechanical ships. Gazing at the mechanical marvel, Marta found it hard to believe those ancient sailors had braved the seas without these modern machines.
Carmichael was the first to give his farewell, perfunctorily pulling Marta to him in a dry hug. His words were cryptic and probably cribbed from one of the philosophical tomes he had been absorbed with lately as he whispered, “To dig through the dirt, one cannot expect to come out completely clean.”
Her mother’s hug held more tenderness, though just barely as she implored Marta not to lose the lilt of her Mimas accent while abroad. Her father’s words were more foreboding, reminding her even though he would not be there physically with her, everything she did would reflect upon him as if he were. Then, placing his hands solemnly upon her shoulders, he instructed Marta to make him proud.
Oleander’s embrace felt like home, a place Marta was forced to part with as she finally broke the hold. Oleander’s hands shot out to catch her own, clinging to them with a desperation Marta had not expected. Marta tried to commit the moment to memory, to capture every detail in its entirety sure as the tintype they had taken had. Then the ship’s horn sounded the final boarding call and Marta was forced to extricate herself.
“Have yourself a grand adventure,” Oleander called as Marta strode towards the awaiting ship. “And don’t forget for one moment that we’re not equal.”
Climbing up the plank to the vessel, Marta looked down to see the Shaper stevedores resting in the shade of the ship. The summer heat had not yet even begun in earnest, but they sweated with abandon after having hauled all the cargo aboard. A few swears wafted up to reach her, the rough men and women that made up her fellow Shapers with no idea at how high she walked above them. Taking swigs off of a flask passed among them, they preferred hard drink befitting the hard work they did, and Marta again thanked Sol that she had been born into the Cildra clan where her Blessed abilities could be put to better use.
Looking down from the deck, the ship suddenly seemed much smaller, the ocean that much more vast. She waved to her family as the Sanct Rosario broke away and it was then that Marta noticed the additional weight upon her hand. Glinting upon her finger a familiar ring resided, one gold strand woven in among the three silver.
The ring had not adorned her finger for years, but it felt inherently a part of her again as Marta realized Oleander had slipped it upon her finger during their goodbyes. In the distance she could not make out Oleander’s face, but Marta knew her sister was grinning. Oleander had indeed intended on winning their game, now up by a single point and Marta with no chance to catch up for another two years.
Though not Blessed, Oleander truly was the best aspects of her other siblings, with Carmichael’s cunning and Marta’s physicality. With time and the proper opportunity, Marta was sure Oleander would prove herself one of the greatest of the Cildra clan.
Marta grinned as she examined the ring. Oleander had been amazing as always, but she had also made a mistake in showing her up so theatrically. Such a challenge could not go unanswered, and Marta now had two years to plan how to defeat her dear sister.
Chapter 6
Winterfylled 18, 567
Marta awoke with a clear head, her mind alive and running through her plan as she stretched her body. Though her stony face did not show it, her hands itched to get to work. The plan itself was simple: taking only minutes to formulate, a few hours to acquire the proper supplies, a
nd hopefully less than an hour to execute. The problem with plans though, Marta knew, was they never entirely resembled the initial idea in the actual execution.
The first supply she obtained was the basket, a wide one meant for collecting washings. To complement it she chose several white sheets, tossing them within with barely a glance. Next came the can of resin, a thick and viscous liquid she poured upon the basket and sheets back in the boardinghouse. Leaving them to soak, she trudged towards the stop she had wanted to put off as long as possible.
Stepping into the dress shop gave Marta a strange sense of double vision, her memories of hunting in similar stores with her mother surfacing as she breathed the air of the place in. It was nothing compared to the fancy stores of Gatlin, but the smell remained the same: cloth, strong spices to perfume them, and the expectation she would leave prettier than she had entered.
Her mother always gave the girl free rein to wander, allowing Marta to search through the store to her heart’s content. And when her heart was filled to bursting with the store’s wares, she was forced to use her head by explaining in detail why the dress she had chosen would be the best decision. If her argument hinged upon the dress being the prettiest, Marta would leave with one of her mother’s uninspired selections. But if she could form a sound argument her mother approved of, Marta would depart with her prize. As with all interactions with her family, this too was training by teaching the girl to hide her real intentions as she swayed others.
Marta found herself analyzing the dresses by rote, finding not the prettiest, but those with the strongest stitching, the ones that would disappear into a crowd best. She tried one on for herself, the soft fabric feeling unfamiliar and clinging against her skin. The smaller dress she simply slung under her arm, hoping it would be the right size by her rough estimations. The child’s coat she bought on a whim, unsure if the girl would need it on their journey since it would conclude long before winter arrived. Marta would be playing the role of mother for the next few days though, and she reckoned a mother should care if her child was cold.
Depositing her collection of clothes back in the boarding house, Marta examined her spark box next. Sure its charge was full, she contented herself with a cold meal before making her final acquisition.
Slipping silently down the hallway, she checked the sororal’s door to find it locked. Such precautions from the woman were no matter to Marta as she touched her fingertip to the lock and brought forth her mental plans for the open palm. Her fourth Breath responded straightaway, exuding out her fingertip and sliding into the lock to expand until it fit the cylinders perfectly. With a twist of her finger, the lock gave way, accepting Marta’s false key as surely as the real thing.
Shutting the door behind her, Marta was rewarded by the woman’s dirty linens. As she had hoped, a second sororal habit awaited her, close enough in size that it could pass cursory inspection. More importantly, the wimple would cover Marta’s forehead and hide her most distinguishing feature. Folding the garment up, she departed, relocking the door behind her.
Hidden back in her room, Marta dressed herself in the stolen habit. It certainly lacked a studied hand, but it would have to do since her time was running out. Gathering up her washer basket, Marta left the boardinghouse as dusk deepened into night. The sororal she had stolen from would return soon, and Marta had no desire to encounter her while wearing the pilfered clothes.
Keeping her head down as if examining the full basket, Marta returned to the Lindaire Sanitarium, walking, not to the front gates, but around the back. There, Marta studied the imposing wall. She had cleared a higher jump just yesterday, but now anxiety nibbled at her stomach. Something felt wrong as she inspected her surroundings again, finding nothing there to account for her unease.
It was only when her gaze returned to the spiked iron of the wall that Marta realized she alone was the cause of her anxiety. Though her face usually remained stoic, Marta sneered as she chided herself for the stupidity of her sudden fear. During the Grand War she had performed much more dangerous missions than breaking into some Dacist asylum. In those instances she had felt no fear, no anxiety as to the outcome. In those battles her life hung by the thinnest of threads, but she had performed her duties without a trace of disquiet. These sororal sisters were no threat to her, Marta capable of taking the girl from the women by force if she was willing to spill some of their blood. It was true that the sororal sisters were all innocents, but Marta had no qualms spilling blood, innocent or not, so she could not comprehend why she still felt so anxious.
The seconds melting away, Marta turned her attention to her fear. It felt familiar, and it took a moment for her to realize where the familiarity hailed from. It was not from the Grand War as she would have expected, but from her childhood and the games of sneak-and-see she played with Oleander. In those instances there was no threat of physical pain, only the anxiety of being caught, and Marta found herself wondering why this fear of discovery trumped that of death. She also found herself idly wondering why it was the image of her sister that came to mind on her mission to extricate Caddie Hendrix.
But these reveries would never do, Marta’s Cildra training returning to tamp down both the anxiety and image of Oleander. Her mind made up, she summoned her rabbit legs, hopping over the fence with several feet to spare lest she snag her stolen sororal garb.
Alighting on the ground, Marta found the yard devoid of patients, who were probably stowed safely within their rooms. The only question was finding the right room now. And not being caught as she made her attempt would not hurt either.
Marta learned long ago the best antidote to being noticed was to appear as if she belonged. She belonged nowhere now since the war, but Marta kept up the pretence by lowering her head behind the camouflaging sheets as she marched up to the door. It was a back door meant for the serving staff to use and possibly requiring a key. Marta had no fear of the lock and only hoped no one would spy her as she sprung it.
She need not have worried though, as a smiling sororal sister swung the door wide.
“I did not see you go out, Sister.”
The accent was foreign, probably Ossain from the sound of it. That would make sense, the Daci’s seat within the Auld Lands nation of Ossan.
“Just needed to return the washing, Sister,” Marta answered while keeping her head down and refraining from making eye contact.
Marta did not remain long enough to ascertain if the Ossain sororal was suspicious of her sudden appearance in the yard as she pushed through the kitchen and into the building proper. Keeping her steps steady and unhurried was the hardest part as Marta made her way, taking a turn around the corner to pause and listen closely. There were no cries of alarm, no hurried steps behind her, so she decided her disguise held up. The only question was for how long.
It took Marta no time to find the basement and disappear into the dark below. Dropping the basket, she removed her spark box and set the filament to the resin-soaked sheets. For a moment she worried they were still too wet to sustain fire, but finally the spark caught, Marta blowing upon it until it bloomed into living flame. Soon the whole basket was smoldering, the first trails of pungent smoke wafting up to the ceiling. The resin would ensure it would be a slow burn. The smoke was tremendous, though there would be little chance of it spreading along the stone floor.
Leaving her burning basket behind and the door to the basement ajar, Marta set out down the halls until she found the wing containing the patients. Heavy sleeping breaths emanated from their rooms, the whole hallway seeming to inhale and exhale in unison. Marta unlocked each door with her open palm, checking to see if the girl resided within. Each door she then left unlocked, her unsought sleeping occupant undisturbed as she continued her search.
At last Marta found her prize, the girl’s nearly white stock of hair conspicuous even in the dim light. Mentally marking the room, Marta moved on, unlocking one door after the other as she waited for her trap to spring. The smell of smoke was alrea
dy obvious to her, but so far the sororal sisters remained oblivious. She considered giving out the call of alarm herself, but drawing any more attention might be more than her disguise could endure. So Marta decided on a hundred-count before she gave the alarm.
She was over halfway through her count before the frightened cry of “fire” finally sounded from the kitchen. Soon as she heard it, Marta began throwing open the doors, yelling at the patients to hurry outside. The first one stared at her in shock, but soon other cries of distress joined hers, the patients roused and hurrying along.
Suddenly another sororal rushed into the hallway, keys jingling in her hands and confusion evident upon seeing all the open doors and fleeing patients. Marta again felt the familiar twinge of fear of discovery, but she pushed the disquiet down as she followed her plan.
“The patients! Get the patients outside before they burn!”
There was honed authority to Marta’s command and the sororal woman instantly obeyed, Marta secretly thanking the order’s strictness and sense of obedience.
The girl had not yet emerged from her room, Marta more than happy to collect her in person. Returning to the door, Marta stepped inside and was surprised to find the girl still tucked into bed.
“Caddie, your father sent me. I’m here to take you to him. I’m here to take you home.”
The child did not move, and when she arrived at her bedside, Marta found her blue eyes open and staring, her breathing calm and unhurried. For a moment she worried the girl might be deaf, but a second look into those blue orbs and Marta realized she was not so lucky. The eyes of Orthoel Hendrix’s daughter aimed straight at the ceiling, her gaze blank and unfocused. Waving her hand before the girl’s face, Marta received no response as her fear was confirmed.
During the Grand War Marta had seen similar cases of combat fugue, the soldiers unable to retreat from the bloodshed physically and instead recoiling within their own minds to sit still as the dead. The men and women Marta encountered like this before had waded through blood so thick it had turned the dirt to mud, and suddenly she found herself wondering what this girl had seen that had left her in this state.
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 7
